Mulder Monday
by Nebride
Summary: Just a typical Monday with Mulder. Is there such a thing?


A/N: Set during the forth or fifth season.  
******************  
  
Most people aren't that anxious to get to work on Monday mornings. Lord knows I never was. I mean, I loved my job, felt that I was doing something important and worthwhile. But there's just something about Mondays.  
  
Until now.  
  
Until I was assigned to him. Now, I can't wait.  
  
He usually beats me in to the office, which is odd, because he's not terribly punctual. But he's usually there first. I can smell that too strong coffee he makes as I come down the stairs. That's when my heart begins to speed up.  
  
He looks up as I come in, his eyes searching out mine. I can tell he's happy to see me, which makes my heart quicken even more. Suddenly, my own emotions are flying, but I'm careful to not let him see it. He almost never exchanges the usual "Good morning how are you" type of greeting. But I've gotten used to that.  
  
He's leaning back in his chair looking smug. One of these days it's going to spill him. I just hope I'm there when it does.  
  
"Hey Scully," he says, his smile wide and his eyes filled with a boyish mixture of excitement, joy and mischief. "Did you read this?" he asks. I walk around the desk to look at the preposterous tabloid spread out before him.  
  
As I read over his shoulder, not really paying attention to the latest sighting of crop circles, I inhale his aftershave. It smells of pine and cedar and clear starlit nights. Its not too strong, just enough. I have to be really close to him to smell it. And I like being close to him. He smells of soap and man, too. An intoxicating bouquet.  
  
I move a step closer so that my waist is almost touching his shoulder. Heat radiates from him. I bask in the furnace of his body, letting it warm mine. He warms me in other ways, with the warmth of his spirit, his compassion, his sensitivity. He is one of the most decent human beings on this planet.  
  
Though he'd never believe me if I told him that.  
  
I ignore the idiotic article on the desk and concentrate on the man instead. I look down at his dark hair. In the not so bright lights of our office, it looks black. But in full sunlight I have seen the glint of dark chocolate in it.  
  
It's combed and neat this morning, but in a few hours that traitorous lock will creep down over his forehead and my hands will burn with the need to brush it away. He'll do it instead, only to have it fall forward again. His hair is an X file all of its own. When it's like this, he's the professional FBI agent. But when his hair is scruffy and sticking up all over his head, he looks twelve.  
  
I know the silky texture of it. I've run my fingers through it when he's been ill or injured, feeling the gossamer strands slipping against my skin. I've dreamed about what his hair would feel like elsewhere, against my lips, my breast, or... I can barely think about it without sucking in a sharp breath, between my thighs.  
  
He hears my quick intake and looks up at me. Now I am confronted by his eyes. One of his best features. But then he has so many.  
  
His eyes are the window to his soul. I know, it sounds cliché and poetic, but it's true. I can read his every emotion there, or read when he's trying to hide them. They can reflect sincerity or mischief, pain or exuberance in their multi- colored depths. And what color would describe them? They are moss green with flecks of amber and brown. But that's right now. I've seen them turn gray to match his mood.  
  
Looking into his eyes is compelling and captivating. I find myself drawn in, caught, captured by his intensity. My heart flutters with emotion. He is so precious to me.  
  
Looking into his eyes I am aware of the unfathomable depths of his mind. Witty remarks and wild theories make me forget how truly intelligent he is. But when I gaze into his eyes I am struck by the force of his intellect. His mind is something to be reckoned with. It is almost intimidating.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
Those eyes that I have been admiring are now turned up at me in mischievous delight, wondering why I've been staring at him.  
  
I turn away to hide my blush and busy myself hanging up my coat and opening my briefcase. "Mulder," I begin, remembering the crop circles in his tabloid. "If aliens are visiting this planet, don't you think they'd have better things to do than make circles on someone's farm?"  
  
He lifts his brows at me. "I don't know. Wanna go find out?"  
  
"Mulder, no..." Our usual argument ensues and as usual, I eventually give in. I can almost hear the wild geese honking, anxious for the chase to begin.  
  
Denying him is a skill I have not mastered. I have gone from adoring to frustrated in less than two minutes. Only Mulder can do this to me.  
  
Have I mentioned his charm? To go with that very formidable intellect of his is the ability to charm birds out of trees, stars out of the skies, and me into just about anything I don't want to do. I don't know how he does it. Its another X file. What's even stranger is that this charm of his, works so well on me, yet he never uses it on anyone else. Why bother with me, when he could be charming a larger budget out of Skinner?  
  
But perhaps Skinner does not turn to jelly like I do when I look into those beautiful eyes. Or maybe I'm just too gullible.  
  
Am I? I didn't used to think so.  
  
We're in the car now and its almost noon. I'm starving and it's quite obvious that we're lost. I don't even bother with the suggestion of a map. Mulder, despite his intelligence is hopeless with a map. And I know well enough not to suggest asking for directions. He'll figure out where we are eventually. He always does.  
  
In the mean time, I distract myself with sideways glances at his profile. It's worthy of distraction. His high forehead is wrinkled in frustration right now, but that does not disguise the perfect shape of his brows. His eyes are almost triangular, noticeable especially when he squints in the sunlight. His cheekbones are high and blend in to the squareness of his jawline. I know he's a little self conscious of his nose, but I like its rugged outline. His face would be too perfect otherwise.  
  
And then there is his mouth...I've had dozens of fantasies about his mouth alone. The fullness of his lower lip makes me want to suckle it, to run my tongue over its smoothness. I can picture his lips against my skin, gliding down my neck, covering my nipple... I can imagine what it would feel like to have him suckle me, to graze his teeth against my sensitive skin, to have his tongue circling the sensitive nub...  
  
Good grief, it's hot in here! I'm not frustrated with him any more; I'm just frustrated. With all the gentle touches at work, the subtle and not so subtle innuendoes, the precarious situations that force us to rely on each other; we've had several years of platonic foreplay. It should lead to great sex. But both of us are afraid to cross that line. Eventually, the need is going to outweigh the fear. Won't he be surprised if I crack first?  
  
I blush as I realize that he's caught me starring at him again. He has a grin on his face that is somehow, both knowing and curious at the same time.  
  
"Scully, you O.K.?"  
  
"I'm fine Mulder, just hungry." Isn't that the truth? But I doubt that any restaurant will have what I want on the menu. "Let's find a place to eat."  
  
He gets his bearings with lunch, almost as if direction is something he can ingest. So, we're on our way and I'm soon tramping through a field after my partner. Thank God I wore sensible shoes this morning.  
  
I envy him his height as we pass through the stalks. They're just at eye level for me and as he walks in front of me, they whip back into my face. If I slow down, he turns to me in concern that I'm not keeping up. If I get close enough to be sheltered by his body, I risk stepping on his shoes.  
  
We finally reach the circle and I'm grateful to whatever human or alien force flattened down the stalks. I can see now.  
  
And what I see are a lot of footprints. This crop circle looks suspiciously like the work of local teenagers walking around in circles. I keep my opinion to myself for now. I'll save it in case Mulder starts off on one of his tangents.  
  
Having seen all the evidence I need, I turn my gaze to Mulder. He stands with his hands on his hips; pushing his trench coat back out of the way. His holster and the butt of his Smith and Wesson are visible at his waist. Since when did I start thinking that his gun made him look sexy? I don't watch that much TV.  
  
His gray pants hang low on his hips and I'm reminded of just how slender he is. Most men near the age of forty can not boast the perfectly flat stomach that Mulder can. I close my eyes and envision the sprinkling of dark hairs on his chest. I don't like men who are really furry. Mulder is just right. There is more hair on his stomach, pointing downward like a map.  
  
He's wonderfully well put together. His legs are long and nicely muscled. Those five miles he puts in before breakfast do more than just keep him healthy. I know that he must work out sometimes too. Running could not account for the strength of his arms and shoulders. It's not padding in those Armani suits that make his shoulders seem so wide, it's the real thing. Does he know that he drives me crazy when he wears a T-shirt?  
  
Or what about blue jeans? For the first couple of years I was able to ignore what a nice ass he has. I especially ignored the bulge in the front. That, I never allowed myself to even think about.  
  
Until two years ago.  
  
We were late for a meeting at work. He wasn't wearing blue jeans that day, of course, but what happened made me appreciate them later.  
  
He opened the door to the conference room for me and as I stepped in the doorway, he was right behind me. Unfortunately, the room was crowded with agents and having no where to go I stopped right where I was. Mulder stopped too. But as the door swung shut behind him, it bumped him in the back, causing him to bump into me.  
  
I couldn't move. I was sandwiched between the agent in front of me and Mulder behind. And he was sandwiched between me and the door. His hands came up and rested lightly on my waist. Whether he was trying to steady me or himself I don't know. But it was rather nice, like spooning standing up.  
  
And then I felt it.  
  
A warm solidness stirred against my backside. I could feel him through the thin fabric of my summer suit and the equally thin fabric of his pants. Hastily I found an escape route to the side. I was embarrassed and curious. The next time I saw him in a pair of blue jeans and I knew he wasn't watching... I had a good, long, hard look.  
  
No pun intended.  
  
Oh, God! Speaking of long hard looks, he's caught me starring again. Forcing myself not to blush, I walk across the circle to him.  
  
"Mulder, this is obviously a prank. The numerous footprints suggest a large group of people trampling the stalks down as they walk in a circle." There, that sounded like the Dr. Scully that he expects. He'd never guess at the heated thoughts I keep locked away. Thoughts that I'm getting tired of locking away.  
  
He doesn't want to agree. He looks away from me and out across the field, his beautiful eyes squinting in the afternoon light. I can tell that he's searching for just one thing that will make this an X file instead of the prank that he knows it is. Finally those wide shoulders droop and I know he's given up. The excitement that rolled off of him earlier is replaced by disappointment.  
  
Gently, I lead him back to the car, feeling somehow maternal. He needs me when he's down and I can't resist him when he's wearing that twelve-year-old pout.  
  
We're quiet on the way back, though I'd like to say something to make him feel better. I glance at my watch. It will be quitting time when we get back to DC but I hate to part with him. Despite the roller coaster he's put me through today, I want more.  
  
I take a deep breath. Butterflies have suddenly taken up residence in my stomach. "Mulder, it's getting late. Would you like to just skip going back to the office? I'll make you dinner at my place. It's closer."  
  
He glances at me. Surprise, pleasure and just a trace of suspicion have raised him out of his depression. I can feel my insides turning to mush. Do I really want to do this?  
  
Yes, yes, yes!  
  
"What about your car?" he asks and his voice is low and rough, his eyes dark with emotion.  
  
Car, what car? How can I think about my car when he's looking at me like that? "Well, if you don't mind picking my up in the morning?"  
  
"I don't mind." And I watch as he takes the Georgetown exit.  
  
I feel awkward as I fix dinner. He's watching me now. I steal a quick glance at him. He's taken off his jacket and his tie and rolled up his sleeves. How can his arms look tan at this time of year?  
  
He's flipping through channels on the TV, stopping to catch the news. And then he looks up at me, a long slow look that makes my heart skip and my face burn. I force myself not to look away. And then I'm caught in that hazel gaze, trapped by his mind, by his wants. I'm drowning in him, loosing myself and I don't care.  
  
His soul is open to me and I see need and fear, desire and vulnerability. When I think about all the emotions that he puts me through in one day, I wonder what I do to him. Can I possible have the same effect on him that he does on me?   
  
The moment is broken when the ladle slips from my unresponsive fingers and clatters to the floor. I bend to pick it up and try to get my lungs started again.  
  
Dinner is a silent meal. We're both uncomfortable and afraid. We both steal glances at each other and then look away. I feel like my insides are trembling.  
  
I clear the table and Mulder starts washing up. He's a surprisingly good houseguest. Not that you could tell from his apartment. But the few times he's had dinner here, he always washes the dishes. It's a gesture that would endear him to any woman, but its especially endearing to me since I know how much he hates domestic work. I help by drying and putting things away.  
  
We are still silent.  
  
Enough! I've had enough. What's the worst that could happen? Skinner could split us up, but we've been threatened with that before. I would hate it but it wouldn't keep us apart. And besides, if we're careful and discreet on the job...  
  
It's up to me. I know it is.  
  
Mulder has just set the last pot down and is rinsing his hands. I walk up behind him and lay my hand on his back. His skin is warm through the crisp fabric of his shirt. He turns to look down at me, his dark brows raising in a question.  
  
"Thank you," I say simply. The words meaning more than just helping me to clean up. I'm thanking him for everything, for being my friend, my partner, my soul mate, my love. He is everything and I do love him. I've loved him for a long time.  
  
He must understand what I'm trying to say, without saying it. Because his lips curve in a warm smile and he opens his arms to me. I step into his embrace and it feels like coming home. He tucks my head beneath his chin and we stand in a circle of warmth.  
  
Then he leans back and looks at me. His eyes are dark with desire, but with caution too. I realize that tonight will not be "the night". But soon, very soon. He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes, cherishing the feel of his warm mouth on my skin.  
  
He pulls away from me gently and gathers up his jacket and coat. At the door he pauses and looks back at me, another smile tugging at his mouth. I smile back at the promise I see there and then he closes the door behind him.  
  
Tomorrow is Tuesday. Just another day at the office.  
  
I can't wait.  
  
End. 


End file.
